I Am Not Jessica Chen(13)

But if this is real life . . . how the hell did it happen? What theory could possibly begin to explain this? And even more importantly, if I’m inhabiting Jessica Chen’s body, living her life . . .

Then who’s living mine?



Even on days without freakish supernatural events, first period English tends to give me a headache.

All the windows are closed, the single door shut tight, the air in the room stuffy as the inside of a turtleneck sweater and smelling inexplicably of chlorine (the rumor goes that a student was once killed in here, and the school cleaned the body up themselves to avoid bad press). Old Keller is already scribbling out today’s learning objectives on the board when we file our way inside, the red marker so faint the words are barely visible. Something about aloneness and selfness and metaphors.

To be fair, Old Keller isn’t even that old. Certainly no older than my dad. But he has all the mannerisms and fashion style of someone transported here from the nineteenth century, and he is known to speak fondly of Shakespeare as if they were good drinking buddies.

“Please copy the objectives down,” he tells us in a voice like chalk.

He doesn’t need to bother; it’s what he says at the start of every lesson. Soon the classroom is filled with the soft flap of notebooks flipping open, the scratch of pen on paper, chairs pushing out, people squeezing into their designated seats.

Though nobody ever acknowledges it aloud, there’s a pretty clear pattern to the seating arrangement here. An invisible line runs down the classroom. On one side, you have the legacies, the broad-shouldered boys and sun-kissed girls, the wealthy sons and daughters of law firm owners and university professors and construction magnates. On the other side, you have the Asian kids.

Of course, as with any rule, there are exceptions. Like Charlotte Heathers, who’s a musical theater nerd, famously has no social media whatsoever, and only spends time with the piano prodigies.

I’m making a beeline for my usual desk in the middle when Leela grabs my arm. Pulls me over with an odd expression on her face, like she’s unsure if I’m joking.

“Where are you going?”

“Huh?”

A few heads swivel toward us, all of them looking just as confused as Leela does.

“Aren’t you sitting with me?” she whispers, waving at the chair next to her. Jessica’s chair.

I falter. Gather myself. “Oh—right. Sorry, I just . . . got distracted—”

“Ladies, ladies, please stop your yapping and take your seats already.” Old Keller shoots us a half-hearted glare. As with most teachers, his strictness never seems to apply to Jessica Chen. “Class started one minute ago.”

I quickly sit, but I can’t stop staring at the empty spot where I should be. My heart beats faster, harder, drowning out the beginnings of Old Keller’s lecture. Will some other version of me waltz into class today? Someone with my face and body but not my personality? Or is there some sort of multiverse at work, where two versions of me exist at the same time, my consciousness split between them? The thought drives a chill through the marrow of my bones.

But the seat remains empty, and none of my classmates points out my absence. What’s stranger is that Old Keller doesn’t remark on the fact that I’m missing either, and he’s the kind of teacher who only accepts absences in the event of death. Even if you were almost dead, he’d still expect you to drag yourself to class with your last breath to take notes on the symbolism in Romeo and Juliet.

“. . . before we move on to our next unit, I wanted to hand back your essays. Yes, finally, I know, thank you for your patience. I was especially impressed with Jessica’s work,” Old Keller says, with a rare little smile, the thin wrinkles around his mouth deepening as he turns to me. “Your thesis was, dare I say, groundbreaking. To have interpreted the characters of Edith and Clara as being deliberately unlikable, the personification of the author’s own worst fears—indeed, to read their interactions through the lens of self-mockery. . . . It’s such a fresh, incisive take, and a true indicator of how well you understood the text and the themes—you were not just thinking about the book, but thinking beyond it.” He pauses dramatically, and clears his throat. “You know I have a policy of never rewarding full marks for essays, as writing can never be perfect, but I was moved to make an exception in this case. Well done. Very well done.”

All the questions swirling inside my head take a vacation as a happy flush spreads through my cheeks, my lips kicking up involuntarily. If this bursting, radiant feeling were a liquor, I would be intoxicated. And I can’t help myself; I want more of it. I want everything I didn’t have. “Thank you so much, Mr. Keller,” I say, in Jessica’s sweet, angelic voice. I tuck my perfect hair behind my perfect ear and continue with perfect charm, “I honestly don’t think I would have gotten into Harvard without your guidance all these years. . . .”

It works even better than I thought.

There’s a pause before the whole class reacts. An explosion of noise, color, applause, congratulations, and compliments pouring in from all sides. “Oh my god,” Leela shrieks, jumping up from her seat with such enthusiasm it almost scares me. She actually looks like she might cry with joy. “Oh my god—you got into Harvard? That’s incredible. Jessica. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me right away. Are you absolutely ecstatic? I’m so ecstatic for you. Do your parents know? What did they say? I’m going to call my mom, she’s going to be so excited—she always said you’d make it big—”